


bodyache

by orphan_account



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Amnesia, Established Relationship, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-16 23:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15448548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: She wakes up with a name in her mouth.Or: Artemis, and remembering.





	bodyache

**Author's Note:**

> [title src.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=btqAHQJ-jJQ)
> 
>  
> 
> this has been sitting in my drafts since june so i decided to finally post it.

 

 

 

 

 

She wakes up with a name in her mouth. The only problem is, she doesn’t remember it or who it belongs to. On the tip of her tongue, it’s just out of reach—that’s what makes it so frustrating, as if she’s not reaching high enough to pick something off the shelf. She opens her mouth to speak, but then the darkness closes in, and envelops her.

The next time she opens her eyes, she’s cold, but not alone. Someone is standing over her, calling some girl’s name. _Artemis. Artemis, can you hear me?_ And when things come into focus, she realizes that the curiously costumed crowd standing around her are saying it too. When a hand rests on her forehead tenderly, and she shifts awkwardly away, she realizes they’re saying it _to her_.

 _Artemis. Artemis. Artemis_. The loop of questions snag on that word, which they tell her is her name. Which she supposes it is, since the more they say it, the more familiar it becomes. She slips in and out of consciousness in a room without sun or moonlight, never knowing the time. She catches bits and pieces: _fractured_ _tibia; accident; explosion; Sportsmaster; failure; head trauma_. It’s fairly easy to put together once she’s able to sit up in bed without assistance, sipping something sickly sweet through a striped straw. Something went wrong. _Not your fault_ , Nightwing says, whose words, despite his vague familiarity, do nothing for the tension building a wall with bricks and mortar along the curve of her spine.

They say they are waiting for Miss M. _She’ll help you,_ Superboy says, though he looks down and away afterwards. _You’ll be fine_ , Aqualad tells her, but she can see doubt swimming in his eyes, plain as day, like the gills on his throat. Kid Flash doesn’t say anything at all. He just seems nervous, looking between her and the door. Waiting.

None of this is important. She knows that much. There’s something horribly, terribly wrong with this situation—and it’s not that she’s without her memories. No, she figures she knows enough—what year it is, her birthday, balancing chemical equations—to be able to swing her legs over the side of the bed and stand. The first time she tries, she falls. Someone chastises her. She snarls in response, pushing the outstretched hands away. The second time she tries, she makes it as far as the doorway. She puts her foot down the wrong way and pain splits down her leg from the midpoint of her calf; she grits her teeth and sags against the wall, her pride smarting. She refuses to fall again. She’s asked them, _what am I missing?_ and gotten no helpful answer—not even a _hint—_ and there isn’t any time for that.

The farther she walks, the more she remembers. When she reaches the hall, she starts remembering names. _Kaldur. Wally. Conner_. When she makes it to the elevator, her training comes back to her in pieces. _Dodge. Feign. Distract. Anticipate. Trust no one_ —then— _trust is required to function as a team_. When she starts in the stairwell, pieces begin fitting back into place. Bit by bit, her life comes back to her. She half-expected it to feel like getting her skin scraped and then being told it was always supposed to be like that, but it’s more fluid—natural. Something will come to her mid-swallow or in the dark and it will be like, _oh—that was always meant to be there_.

The name she woke up with is tucked behind her teeth. Specifically, her top molars. She keeps it there because, even though she’s remembering more and more, Nightwing and the others are being careful not to divulge anything she shouldn’t know—which isn’t a lot, but Kaldur says it’s better if it comes from her rather than them. _Well_ , she says one morning, pushing away her breakfast with a scowl, _I don’t need you anyway_. There are things they’re not telling her she doesn’t need to know, but, more importantly, she can see it in their faces that there’s something they’re not telling her that she _deserves_ to know, whether they think so or not.

They’re still waiting on Miss M. _M’gann_. Where is she? No one says a word. They simply avert their eyes guiltily.

In the dead of night—Wally was kind enough to bring her her phone so she could tell time in her windowless room—she lurches out of bed. Alone, no longer in the company of her fellow heroes, Artemis carefully makes her way to the door. There’s no telling who’s slumped over in a chair outside. Wally is the most likely candidate, but there have been others, too. _Cassie. Bart. Jaime._ But when she cracks open the door, she finds the corridor empty, filled with long shadows and motes of dust. So she slips out, hugging the wall as she goes. She’s determined not to get escorted back to her room this time. She’s determined to find out what she’s missing, because they won’t tell her, and the not knowing is killing her.

That’s when she hears it. A muffled voice. Coming from a room across the hall. She almost missed it. She darts to the other side of the hallway, ignoring her injured leg, and looks around quickly— _coast is clear_ —before pressing her ear to the door.

She can’t make out what they’re saying. No, wait—

_She can’t—_

_—soon—_

_—tell her—_

_—oh! She’s—_

And then there’s a clamor, a chorus of voices all saying something but bleeding together enough that Artemis can’t tell what. _Enough skulking around_ , she thinks, and pushes open the door. Nearly falls in when she sees—when she sees—

**_Zatanna_ ** _._

_Zatanna. Zatanna. Zatanna._

The name comes out of her mouth on an exhale like a sigh, or a prayer. Something fits into place inside of her and her eyes sting; she quickly blinks, trying to clear her eyes of the tears as she ignores the protests and pleas for her to go back to her room.

The dark-haired girl is lying in bed, chest barely rising, but her eyes are open, slowly scouring the room. M’gann is next to her, shoulders sagging with relief; Wally is smiling ruefully even as Nightwing reaches out to steady her as she sways. But she puts her foot down, firm, using her momentum to pitch forward and fall stomach first onto the foot of Zatanna’s bed. Behind the oxygen mask, Artemis can see Zatanna’s eyes follow her.

Her leg is screaming at her to stop. She doesn’t hear it. She doesn’t hear anything anymore.

Artemis is aware she’s speaking, but she’s not paying attention to exactly _what_ is pouring out of her. It doesn’t seem to matter: Zatanna blinks blearily, and then, slowly, with all the strength she can muster, lifts her right hand—

—for Artemis to take.

She does. She clasps Zatanna’s in her own and then presses it to her chest, and the tension bleeds out of her. Like light. Like blood. Like air.

No one tells her to go back to her room after that. In the end, they leave the two of them alone, and Artemis falls asleep with her head on Zatanna’s shoulder, and she thinks, _this is how it’s supposed to be,_ before letting the darkness envelop her again. This time, there’s no name in her mouth; instead, it’s lodged in her chest, directly up against her ribs. _Right where it’s supposed to be_. She can feel it every time she breathes.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
